My note, a red stain beating on your chest
by Nacchan87
Summary: His name is written all over their flat, on the holes on the wall, on his teacup, on the mess on the floor.    Spoiler 2x03


"Thank you."

Those are the words he's saying the most in the last two days – to Lestrade, to Mrs. Hudson, to Molly. Thank you, John says, because he is frightened by the idea to say something more, something awfully horrible, something like "I can't do it", something like "I don't care if you're here trying to cheer me up, because Sherlock is dead and you are not worth half of him at the moment."

His smile is stretched, tired. He closes the door to the people coming and going, resting on it and closing his eyes so hard they hurt, while he constantly repeats to himself _Don't you even try to cry, John Watson, don't you dare._

His name is written all over their flat, on the holes on the wall, on his teacup, on the mess on the floor. It's two night he sleep on his bed, breathing the last hint of scent on his pillow, crying until he falls asleep, and the day after is already afternoon, when he opens his eyes and the Sun laughs at him.

Two days and he doesn't know how to survive the loss.

He simply can't.

Sherlock is in all the newspapers, his pale face with that funny hat which press his hair on his forehead. He hates that people will remember him as the fraud, as the one who tricked them all. He starts to understand Sherlock's feeling for the human kind, because now, now that he is alone, John can't stand people laughing, people talking about rubbish, people not seeing their best friend throwing himself from the last floor of the Barts.

He hates everyone.

He hates Sherlock.

"You bloody bastard." He shouts at the wall, the yellow smiley face looking at him with pity. "You bloody, stupid bastard!" A punch on the wall, and he screams in pain. He feels so empty without him that pain acts as a sedative, at least for some useless minutes. He falls on his knees, the pattern of the carpet starting to blur in front of his eyes – don't weep, John, don't, don't.

The lump on his throat melts in a silent crying, his voice reduced to a rattle while he calls Sherlock's name.  
>It's a matter of seconds, before Mrs. Hudson goes up the stairs and she is there beside him, hugging him tight on her chest.<p>

"Everything will be fine." she says, but John knows she doesn't believe her own words.

Everything is lost, Sherlock is lost, he is lost.

He calls her therapist again, he goes to talk to her, but everything seems only a waste of time. He can't talk, because the thought of Sherlock dying fills his head, the fall repeating on his head like a broken record. She asks him to tell her what he would have liked to say to Sherlock, but he stays still, looking at the wall, _"This call is my note. That's what people do, isn't it? Leaving a note.", "Goodbye John.", "Goodbye John.", "Goodbye John." _

A head covered in blood smiles at him, "I've discovered everything I could to impress you.", _"Goodbye John."_

The air is irritatingly warm.

The street seems so far, the cars so tiny, now that he is where Sherlock was less than a week ago. He doesn't dare to look down his feet, he doesn't want to see Sherlock's corpse, the blood, people keeping him away from his best friend.

The Sun shines palely over his head while the traffic noise fills his ears, as to remind him that cold and silence will come, once he will fall.

He miss Sherlock so much.

His heart starts to race, but he is not scared, because the dread of living alone is so much stronger. He licks his lips, holding his breath.

Jump. Just jump. Don't overthink. Sherlock is dead, dead, dead.

A week is almost gone, and his wish wasn't fulfilled. He prayed Sherlock to come back but he didn't, so how is he supposed to keep going, now that 221B of Baker Street is more silent than Sherlock's grave?

Jump.

He sniffles, starting to cry.

He hates Sherlock, because he should not have thrown himself from this damn roof.

He hates himself, because his loyalty wasn't enough to save him.

He looks down on the street, cars blurring below his feet. There is a yellow stain spreading like wildfire, a little splash of red on a corner. He rubs a hand on his eyes and tries to focus – a little effort before going forever.

He stops breathing, shaking a bit. Hallucination. There is no other explication.

_I believe in John Watson. – SH_

John calls Sherlock's name, reaching out his hand as to touch those words, his name in red pulsing like a heart.

_I believe in John Watson. – SH_, he reads again. He tighten his eyelids and, oh God, he can't really stand the weight which is forming on his chest. He moves backwards, one, two, three steps before falling down, his legs shaking violently as the hand approaching his mouth.

He bursts out crying, sobbing like a child.

Living without Sherlock is impossible, not when he has showed John what living means for real, with his bloody cases, with his bloody brain, with his bloody running around London and laughing and everything.

"Please, don't be dead." he whispers between his knees for the umpteenth time.

_I believe in John Watson._

"Please, don't be dead."


End file.
